Susan Senator

I used to hate February vacation, but I am loving this one!! I have really enjoyed having Max and Ben around, and Nat has been in such a good mood when he gets home from school. All I do is take them on errands, and we fall back into our same old, familiar mode of chatting in the car, joking over how I drive, things we want to do and get. We reconnect our roots with little tendrils of superficial chat.

Today, with all the snow, I feel justified in staying inside with a project. And since I sent my agent the proposal last night, my creative rivulets are flowing into things textile: a costume, from scratch! Sort of.

Last year I started making my very own sea-green cossie, inspired by a favorite Nourhan Sharif hipscarf in the same color. It was not a bad fit, but it wasn’t quite right, in the end. But I watched a vid Ned had taken, of me dancing in it, and I thought it was cute. So I got it out this morning. And I was struck with a great idea: harvest bits from other cossies (extra fringe, extra beaded crap, etc.) and embellish the bra top. And as luck would have it, I came across some silvery-lavendar bits from some wristlets and cut them off (the wristlets are still useful). I used a piece of periwinkle-lavender trim I had bought on my New York trip with Laura last spring for the middle. I cut off some purple beaded fringe from a cheap cossie that I no longer wear, and also its shoulder straps, and added all to the top! ‘Tis gorgeous!

Interesting how, just as I shipped off my final proposal to my agent, Precious has shown signs of fatal weakening. Not only has she sustained injuries over the years such as: most of her letters are worn off from all my typing, so it’s a good thing I learned how to touch-type in high school; there are permanent palm-prints where your hands rest; the screen is a spotted mess; there is a streak of red nail polish in the upper-right corner. So now, the “z” and the “apple” keys are hardly moving.

I flipped off the key tops to have a look (against Ned’s counsel, I should add, probably reminding him of the time we went to U-Haul for a small truck and all they had was a really big one and while Ned pondered and worried about what we could do about it, I hopped into the driver’s seat and drove right up to him.)

There, within the complicated metallic innards of Precious, twinkling like a tiny gem, was a glass bead from the cossie repairs. I pressed my finger onto it and drew it out. “Oh, look!” I smiled to Ned, who was not at all amused. “There must be more of them under the ‘z!'” Sure enough, another little twinkly bit rolled further inside Precious.

I pried off the “z,” figuring to do a bit more surgery. No go. The cap was stuck and it still is, half of it flipped up into the air like a partially removed scab, revealing the vulnerable flesh underneath. And there it stays, flapping in the breeze, making it really, really hard to get a “z.” I may have to be like Monty Python and use some other letter to mean “z.” Like the guy who can’t say the letter “c” but finally discovers he can use a “k” or an “s, ” depending. But what sounds like “z?” I can’t even spell it out, because I need to use the letter “z.” D’oh.

I picked Precious up and shook her a bit, while Ned’s eyes widened in horror. I think he whispered, “Careful.” But I am not. My stuff has to be able to stand up to my style of use (I wouldn’t call it Ab-use). My family, my friends, my shoes, my cars, my plants, my gardens, my computer, all have to be tough because I am hard on everything. I was now remembering a segment of a childhood tape recording Dad had made of Laura and me playing with cars, where I heard my baby self say, “It boke, Daddy.” And he said, “Susan! You took off all the wheels!” But I merely insisted that it “boke.” Mistakes were made.

I was hoping Precious would last a little longer, so that I could celebrate my next book contract (knock wood, I should be so lucky) with a new laptop. Well, I am still managing to use her, even with the flapping z. What’s a little flapping between friends?

Jen sent me this article and I was intrigued and moved by the story. Over the years I have heard about autistic people learning to communicate via keyboarding, and I have heard the accompanying criticisms about it, the facilitated kind of typing. People have made FC seem like Ouija board of autism therapies, where you don’t know if it is the student’s actual thoughts or is it the teacher guiding his hand. I have discounted FC for this reason.

That kind of doubt is understandable, of course, but what about the cases where the child learns how to type on his own, like DJ in the Ralph Savarese book, Reasonable People? Clearly this is an approach that warrants another look, not because it “de-auticizes” people (NancyBea’s term), but because it gives people a medium for expression. As I sit here typing on Precious and my own thoughts and feelings are exploding through my fingers, I am wondering how I could have dismissed this. And I am wondering how to start working on it with Nat. Nat hates typing. But, Nat already types very well; he sends me emails regularly from school. At first reading, it is hard for me to believe that these are his thoughts, however, because they are so orderly and the grammar is excellent:

Dear mom
Today I went to music
I sang a maroon 5song.
I had fun.
Love
Nat

But now I’m thinking that perhaps he can compose his thoughts better in the writing mode than in the speaking mode. Of course!! Didn’t I learn this in Communication 101, back in college? Certain modes of communicating are more natural and fluid than others for different people. Some function well in the sociogestural mode; some, in the mathematical-lexical; etc. Why is it so hard for me — of all people — to believe that writing is an easier mode of communication than speaking for Nat? Because he never types willingly.

But maybe that is because he needs to do it more intensively, more than 20 mins every other day at school, to make the leap that this is a desirable thing. So many things have been like this for Nat. He doesn’t realize, for years, that something we are trying to teach him is ultimately for his benefit, i.e., will improve his life and his happiness. Like learning to play basketball. It took two years before it made him really, really happy to play. Being able to communicate, period, will certainly improve Nat’s quality of life.

So this means — I should find a person who can teach him this in our home, who doesn’t mind getting hurt sometimes. Because he will resist this. Ah, there’s the rub. Er, pinch.

I know this is boring to everyone, but here I go anyway. It beats making dinner.

I sewed ALL of my costumes! I fixed every single one that was tearing, and I even tailored a few to fit better. I now have eleven wearable cossies! Plus I Dryel-ed or washed them so that they are really clean. I hung them all on nice hangers and suspended them from my bed tester. They look so beautiful hanging there! I feel like the luckiest girl in the world. These are the kind of things I always wanted, my entire life. I thought only ballerinas or princesses had such things. My own prom dresses were not even as nice — Gunne Saxe, remember those? The only thing the magnificence of the cossies compares to is my wedding dress, and how it felt to wear that. It had been my mom’s, so of course it was classy and elegant, like her. But — perhaps it could have been a little more tarty, like me! Some bows and whatnot.

I never dreamed that such a world actually existed as Bellydanceville and that I could legitimately wear such things! I never imagined I would actually think I was good enough to dance like those other women. But sometimes — I do.

I feel I must be such a weirdo to you all, but this is one of my favorite things in the entire world: glittery colorful costumes and the unga-potchke music that goes with it! It feels like a guilty pleasure, for some reason, which makes it all the sweeter.

I had so much energy yesterday, even by dinner time, so I put it to good use. I made a nice dinner, which was extra good because Max’s girlfriend was staying for it. At one point just before dinner, Nat happily wandered into Max’s room, and Nat looked at them, smiled, and said, “Come in here.” Max and H just kind of stared, and finally Max said something softly, like, “Not now.” I knew he couldn’t, but there it was again, that sweet pain of mixed feelings, over what is, and what is not.

So I said, “Hey, great sentence, Nat!” And then I invited him to come make cornbread with me. He left with a big smile on his face. Then he made an excellent cornbread while cooked a huge piece of salmon for dinner, like 2.68 pounds. (Talk of fish for dinner always makes me smile, thinking of my grandfather Paul, who used to order fish in a restaurant like this: “Give me a nice piece of fish. Boin it, bleck.”) I did not burn ours black, but had Papa been here, I sure would have for him. After dinner, H left and we all went about our nighttime business of showers, etc.

Last night was strange. Costume after costume was falling apart (so much use! I don’t think these were designed to be practiced in, night after night, but that is the way I roll). Today I will have to do a lot of sewing, I think, although the proposal is calling. I could not settle on a look, because the one I wanted to wear had a shoulder strap that was about to go.

Then I couldn’t settle on a song. I thought I was in a Natacha Atlas mood, especially after listening to “Ne Me Quitte Pas” over and over again in my car, playing it for the boys, and then for Ned because it is just so beautifully sung. But I was not able to dance to her stuff yesterday. I just kept pressing “forward,” and then suddenly this old number came on. I don’t know what it’s called. I think of it as “Warrior.” It always makes me think of warriors riding horses down a big sand dune, all dark but clothed in white, except for one, who is blue-eyed, blond, and bearded…

Not much going on. Nat had two outbursts today at school, but there was no obvious reason. $#@#! I hate that!! I was so nervous when he came home, but he seemed as sweet as ever, maybe a little anxious over the tupperware left in his lunchbox. He settled in with Aladdin, my all-time favorite, (love the psuedo-Arabian music and Princess Jasmine’s look, plus of course, Robin Williams!). So while that’s going on, I’m having a latte and re-reading my proposal, before sending it off to my agent, who just got back from San Francisco.

Food shopped, laundried, cleaned, all that stuff. Then, got a haircut, the first in over a year! I got bangs! This is a very dancerly look; so many of the bellydancers I know have bangs and frankly, I was totally sick of my other look. I asked Max to take a picture because I’m going to dance tonight and it will be all messed up after that.
(Hah! You can’t even tell I have a haircut, now that I look at these. d’oh! Just wait ’till I’m all done up, Raks Sharqi style.)

C’est tout pour maintenant.

I believe that things like grief are recursive, but lately I wonder if that’s true for everyone, or is it more so for me because I tend to obsess and stay stuck in certain mindsets? Or maybe it is that for everyone, memories play a part in keeping us fixed in our lives, even the parts we thought were over.

Nat’s condition rests on me today, like an old afghan, mostly benign, maybe just a little itchy or moth-eaten. In the morning, after I suggested he watch or listen to something, rather than simply plant himself in the middle of the couch, I heard the familiar strains of The Hundred Acre Wood song. Well, that’s what he likes, my mind said in response to the complicated, muddy feelings seeping from my heart. The age-old questions: He’s still watching Winnie-The -Pooh? Is this okay? Is there something else I should be doing? Make him watch a real show instead of an old vid? “Nat, later on we’ll bake something, okay?” I called out, more for me than for him, thinking that to get Nat do do something with me is to propell him forward, to let him do his own thing is to allow stagnation.

I went off and did my thing. When I got back we all ate lunch and Nat reminded me of the baking. We got out Mom’s Big Book of Baking, as always, and chose a recipe; this time, molasses cookies. It all went just fine.

After that, I took a little nap and did the crossword. Nat was walking around again, I guessed he was looking for something to do. Or — is it that I wanted to see him “productive?” After all these years, he still does not know to get something out and play it. Is it that he doesn’t really want to play, or is it that he would prefer to remain in this, his easiest state, just walking fast and talking to himself. Today, though, I couldn’t take seeing him do just that, it made me feel pinched behind the eyes, so I became Teacher Mom for a while, suggesting we do puzzles, play games, anything that was “appropriate.” He willingly did it all, but the whole dime we were playing it was rote and rushed. The questions pulled at me; the afghan was feeling too small and my feet were getting cold. Is he enjoying it, or just tolerating it? Does he enjoy the pacing more? If so, why can’t that be the thing that he does?

“You want to listen to something now?” I asked. The little stereo wires lay tangled and disconnected, an upended bowl of dusty black spaghetti. The stereo had obviously not been working for a very long time. I felt absurdly like crying. “Max!” I called. “Can you help with the stereo?” Max came in right away and did his thing, looked at it, made clean sense of it in seconds, and the green face of the CD player lit up. But Nat was already standing, hovering, looking anxious as he gets over technology that doesn’t function properly the very first time. I remembered the iPod Dad had given him for his birthday, loaded with Simon and Garfunkel and the Beatles and Elton John — Dad’s favorites and also Nat’s. I hooked him up with the iPod and left him, sitting on his bed, hunched as if the earbuds weighed him down. I sighed. Or is he maybe relieved, relaxing, glad that I’m letting him be?

“I’m going back to my movie,” Max informed us. He’s watching a movie? Again? But I didn’t say anything. “Okay, honey,” I said. I was touched that he is still so helpful, so considerate, even as a teenager. Max, I also realized, is allowed to just veg, but Nat is not. Is that fair? Is that right?

I felt like I had done pretty much all I could, so I went downstairs to my crossword puzzle. What a fricken waste of time that is! Not to mention that I never complete them! Shouldn’t I…?

I guess I’m not really allowed to just do my own thing, either.

Maybe soon I’ll get to a point where I realize that there is no real way of judging what is an “appropriate” use of leisure time; it’s really all a matter of how comfortably we wear our lives.

Behold, the elements of a good Sunday: NYTimes crossword, unmarred by wrong answers; a brand new bound-to-be-good Anita Shreve; plenty of Peet’s decaf with foamy nonfat milk; Precious, filled up with my new book idea; and my zills, for dancing later. In the background, Beastie munches on an apple and peanut butter, so there’s nachas for his good lunch. Max, Ned, and Nat are on a walk, so Ned will be happy because he’s been looking for ways to do more with the boys. He’s already done two blog posts and the taxes, so I know he’s in a good mood.

We went out to dinner last night at our all-time favorite restaurant: Pho Republique, in the South End. I sat at the bar and waited for Ned to park while the gorgeous bartender offered to “keep me company.” He mixed up a Red Splendor for me: pomegranate and cranberry, I think, with sugar on the rim. He asked me if I wanted extra sugar and I may have blushed in happiness. Ned and I shared chicken-and-ginger dumplings and tuna tartare springrolls. I had Pad Thai, which I don’t think I’ve eaten in about 5 Atkins years. The thing I forgot about carbs: they really fill you up fast! So I couldn’t even finish my plate, not at all how I was raised!

This morning, I worked out for an hour, and it was so intense that I think I may have slipped into kind of a buzz, or meditative state. After 40 minutes stairmaster and running, I did all this resistance stuff and stretching. I could only hear my music, and I had the opportunity to practice my bellydance moves in one of the studios, where there were mirrors on all sides. I was not thinking of anything, which is new for me, just moving and feeling and looking. I had so much energy, and I found I did not mind the discomfort of the physical work-out. I felt strong and healthy. Must be the carbs.

Old Mom
Leave me alone
Old Mom
Just go on home.
–E.C. and me

How bad can life be when you have the sun shining through the window and Mozart playing? The living room is alive with color and sound; my veils are lying in a pile of rainbow sherbet on the vanilla couch, left over from last night’s dancing. The Mozart is at Nat’s request.

People who don’t know think that my life is sad or tough because of autism. But as I’ve said many times, we decide for ourselves what makes our lives sad or tough. For me it is not autism; it is my own struggle with depression and her nasty sister, anxiety. It is the desire to feel comfortable in my own skin.

My children provide me with a challenge and distraction from my own pain. Nat gives me a lot to think about, and also, a lot to love. Especially when he is crazy-happy, the way he’s been lately. He gets giddy; you could say it was because his nervous system is oversaturated, out-of-whack, sensitive. But why would you? You could also say that he knows that the light is changing, the snow is receding, the days are getting longer. Or, whatever. He’s just happy, and I bask in his beautiful smile. Just looking at his gorgeous face, his pool-blue eyes, his fluffy blond hair, and I feel such an urge to hug and kiss. His face is bristly now. He, like his brothers, tolerates it but does not often seek it out. The closest he comes to it is when he sniffs my hair.

Beastie is still at school, Max is home early because he was feeling nauseous. I felt such a relief in my sense of purpose this morning, driving over to the high school, calling the dean, picking up ginger ale. “Maxie’s sick,” I said to myself, and as I drove past the playground, I remembered taking him to Murphy Park when he was two, and sick. I remember him throwing up right there on the pavement outside the sandbox, and looking up at me, concerned. Then, of course, he started to feel better, so he smiled and ran off to play. He came back again a half hour later and threw up again. Then I took him home.

I think I have really enjoyed being a mother without being aware that I was. I enjoyed them with my body, on a physical level, taking care of them, washing them, feeding them, carrying them, holding and hugging them, bringing them food and to visit people and places. Looking back, I know that I loved being so needed, so important to such beautiful boys. It’s all so much more subtle now, with me much more in the background, no longer needed in quite such a physical way. Now I do more of the planning needed: I make calls, I make meals, I drive them places, I check in with teachers and therapists, I push for services, I fill out forms, I organize parties, buddies, playdates, social group nights. No more impromptu trips to the park; they’ve all got other things to do.

That’s as it should be. But today I’m glad for the sun and the music and the company of my two teenage sons, even if they’re in opposite ends of the house from me.

I bought a big chocolate high heel shoe filled with chocolate hearts. It was sitting on a silver platter. I kept thinking and thinking, “Which friend can I give this to? Who would love to have it as much as I would?”

And then I thought, “Me.” I laughed at myself, thinking that was ridiculous and pathetic. You don’t buy yourself Valentine chocolate. But then I thought, Why not? I realized that all day I had been thinking of something in kind of a destructive OCD way, and not even being aware of it. Only aware in a subconscious way, like when you know a cold is forming behind your nose but you don’t yet have to give into it. You no longer feel good, but you are not yet sick.

I brought the light brown shoe home and left it in the pantry. I sat in front of my computer, unable to write for the first time in days. Time was dragging. I was thinking about that thing again. The bad feeling was now at my center, and I could feel myself twitching, wanting to get rid of it. Wanting to take action.

I texted Ned. I told him about my day, and about when the feeling first started. I realized, as I wrote to him, that I had actually succeeded a tiny bit in my OCD tendencies simply by the fact that I had continued to live my life even with that low-level bad feeling. While I typed, I felt the poison pounding through me, the desire to act. I suddenly flashed back to my terrible days of OCD, back when Max was a baby. How I could not even take a walk without going back to check things.

But one day, about a month into taking Prozac, I felt the craving to go back and check, just as I walked past the Stop & Shop. I was fully aware of the craving and the profound discomfort it gave me. But I also knew, with a feeling that was just as strong as the fiery craving, that I needed to experience walking on in order to build up a history of walking on. I needed to know I did it once, and could therefore survive. So that day, I walked on, without going back. I felt horrible at first, sweating and tense, but the further I got, the more I realized, “Well, it’s actually now too late to go back. I will have to live with this, with whatever happens as a result of not going back.” And I could keep going. I eventually felt a release from the need. It was over.

Perhaps the worst thing about OCD is that things are never over. But that may also be, deep down, why you do it. Because then you can live in perpetual, unreal state. A state of, “But if I do this [ritual]… then…” The perpetual state allows you to think magically, to believe that your OCD behavior can right the wrong.

I realized: you have to want something to be over in order to let go of OCD. (Well, that, and you have to have well-greased synapses.) While I was texting with Ned, I was profoundly aware of how badly I wanted to be better, to be done with this particular obsession. And then I remembered the walking-on, fifteen years ago. I thought that if I sit and absorb these bad feelings without acting on them, I will then know what it feels like to resist; to be done. But — it will mean I am done. Can I handle that?

“I’ll be home soon,” typed Ned.

I felt it lift away, like the dissipation of a bad smell. I smiled to myself. I was tired. And a little hungry.

So I ate the damned candy in the shoe, smiling.

This is the other costume I bought last week. After months of nothing right, my Swap Meet website (bhuz.com) suddenly offered two magnificent pink cossies. So, I took my Baby Bellies earnings and bought ’em! These are stills taken from a vid.

I was dancing to one of my favorites, Natacha Atlas' version of "I Put a Spell on You." … See my Tabblo>

The sky is raining
But it’s shining in my heart
–Stevie Ray Vaughn, and me, The Sky is Crying

We have a two-hour delay (except Nat) from the frozen rain that is falling on top of the snow we had last night. Ben is so happy, he actually said, “Yay!” Little B!

Last night was a big public meeting in Town Hall, and the school parents turned out in droves. The meeting was about whether or not we should break up the tax increase proposal into two or three sections (naturally, the second and third sections are for school initiatives, and so suddenly everyone in town is an expert about what the schools should be offering, and how they are spending too much money as it is). Having been on the School Committee, I know that the cuts have been severe from the state level (thanks to a spineless Legislature) and at the federal level (even with President Bush’s ironically-named “No Child Left Behind” which has actually brought about the exact opposite of what it proposes). I know that heating and healthcare have skyrocketed in the last six years. And the cost of Collective Bargaining issues. Okay, okay. Still, it was a terrific meeting, with a lot of impassioned, articulate speeches from both sides. I saw so many people I know and love from both sides of this particular fence, from my days on the School Board and from Town Meeting and also school parents, and all I could feel was, “Jeez, I love this crazy town.” And I know it’s going to be alright. Even the most “conservative” speaker (who is a really good man) was saying, “I’m in favor of a reasonable Override…” Well, I am, too. And all of it seems reasonable to me (first part is to pay for the structural deficit; second part is to lengthen the school day to be in compliance with the state’s mandates; and the third part is to bring back the elementary World Language Program; currently we only offer it starting in 7th grade, but we used to offer it starting in Kindergarten. And it was Mandarin Chinese. I’d say that a town that tries to bill itself as one of The Best school systems in The Country ought to continue to stand behind that claim and keep up with the demands of the times.

Well-satisfied with that meeting, I walked home with my next-door neighbor, the tiny cold snowflakes kissing our hair, the sky that delicate pinkish-gray it gets from snow. My lungs were full and cool, and the air on my overheated face just tingled.

Yesterday I also got further into my new book idea, which is really the old book idea, but twisted into a topic and angle that I can handle. (I hope my editor agrees.) I had idea after idea as I did the Stairmaster to Bob Dylan. I guess I overdid it at the gym because a few hours later I ate a ton of chocolate ice cream. I absolutely needed to eated. But that felt really, really good.

Then it was onto the Baby Bellies, with my very full belly. Now I was so ready for those Beast-ettes. I ripped 7 discs of Misirlou for them and typed the choreography up and printed them out, only to realize that some of them are so little they may not be able to read yet! (Not that there’s anything wrong with that. Some of my favorite people on this planet don’t or can’t read.) But I figured I would just go over the choreography with them, and just show them it all.

One of them got really anxious that she didn’t know it. Another just pouted the whole time! (But then, when her mom came in she told me how much S loved the class and wanted to buy her hip scarf and veil, which I sold her for $35 ) So I did all my reassuring and demonstrating, giving descriptive names to all our moves or making jokes (“This is the flower-in-the-circle.” Or “Watch the sock on the wall when you turn or you’ll get dizzy!”). Sometimes I pretended I was the sock on the wall so that they would pay attention and laugh. I would lean on the wall in a slouch and hang my head, limp, with my tongue out, channeling the sock that we pin up there for spotting. Needless to say, they like me as the sock better than the sock as the sock.

They squabble and bicker about who is in what group (I divided them into two groups for the grand entrance), and who should go in first! They come into the circle in a clump that is as far from the Platonic ideal of a circle as you can ever get. But they are all working so hard to do their moves, the darlings.

The three-point turns were a disaster. They collide into one another, and they get so dizzy. I have to figure out what to do but I probably will just keep it like it is, because that’s my vision. And that’s the part they love the best. I’ve been teaching them to listen for when the music changes, so that they know when the next part is coming. (“Listen for the rattling. That is telling you to shimmy.” Or “Here comes the flute, now it’s time to pedal turn.”)

At one point I looked down and one of them was looking up at me, her arms wide, a big smile on her face. It took me a long moment to realize that she was asking me for a hug. An early and very delicious Valentine’s Day for me.

Feh! G’nick! Dayenu! Uncle!
Enough with the ugly winter, already.

I’m ready for it to go off now. Did that fat rodent see her shadow, or what? Yesterday, ironically on the way to my Egyptian bellydance class, we had weather fit for a Pharaoh. First, there were flakes the size of feathers coming down; thunder; then, bright sunshine and I even had to turn off my heat.

Went to class, (learned this really neat pivot-turn-turn-turn thing and new bouncy C of a hip walk) and when I came out — blizzard conditions! This being Central Square, Cambridge, there were all kinds of mean-and-nasty bits strewn all over the streets, blowing in the idiot wind. You had to duck to avoid being pelted with rocks and garbage. And tiny, hard snow peas.

CONTEST: If you can correctly identify and explain origins of all six of the famous cultural references from the 60’s – 80’s in the above paragraph, I will make a limerick out of your name in an upcoming blogpost, or some such tribute. No fair googling.

By the time I got to Chestnut Hill to pick up Nat from his movie, bright shining sun lit up the newly whitened trees. The sky had the heavy lavender — fake lighting look of a late August sky.

Except it was still $#%Q$# February!!!!!

I like a Saturday like this. Everyone is suitably engaged: Nat (and Ned) are at a birthday party; Max and Ben are gaming together; Max is occasionally discussing his Anime Convention costume with me; I am getting stuff done while reading Ann Packer’s Songs Without Words. It is a story that is centered around a suicide and then a suicide attempt. It is about women’s friendships and the relationships between mothers and their teenage kids. There is a little husband-wife stuff, but not enough. Otherwise I love it. (she typed, getting up for a paper towel to wipe the 25-calorie hot cocoa she spilled on it.) I love reading about things I’ve wondered about but have no intention of trying: what it’s like to be so sad you kill yourself; what drives a couple to finally say, “okay, that’s it, we’re over.”

Speaking of the former — I mean sadness, not suicide — yesterday was a baffling whopper. It hit me out of the blue, or should I say, out of the gray; a bastard of a mood that was shat out of dingy white hole in the sky. I could not blame it on my cycle, lack of sleep, stress, or anything tangible except stupid weather and stupid me.

I get so down about my career choice sometimes. Being a writer makes you so dependent on others, including yourself You have to be able to organize and spew ideas that appeal, that will ignite minds and sell. You have to keep hammering away at agents and editors and friends for contacts. You have to keep believing you have something worthwhile to say. That you’re not over.

Yesterday I was lucky in that my pain led me to a bright spot: a revision of an old idea. I got out my old proposal and started to change it over to the new idea. Still a book about fulfillment in the midst of adversity, but with a few new twists. Even a new title. So I’m happy about that, and yesterday, was dancing on air.

And so… I danced. Not on air, but on a creaky hardwood floor. I did not even need the mirror this time. I just lost myself in the song — Misirlou, of course — and the flash of pink I was making across the room.

As I’ve said before, the very first Middle Eastern song I ever really liked, or ever really noticed, was the Misirlou. I first heard it over a year ago, when I began taking classes with Melina, my current Wednesday night teacher. Misirlou is a very old Greek melody, but one that has been interpreted over and over in many different iterations, one of the most recent being from the movie Pulp Fiction. Misirlou was the very first song I choreographed for myself, the first song I danced to with my own vision of movements.

I found out from Melina last night that Misirlou means, “Muslim Egyptian Girl,” and it is a song about a Greek man who longs for a forbidden love, with a girl he cannot have, from another culture.

2006 and part of 2007 were tough years for me. Despite the success of the book — or maybe in part because of it — I learned some pretty hard lessons, and had some difficulties getting myself together. In early 2007, though, I joined my gym, and found a new release to some of my anguish by exercising in the bright, wide open, sunlight-filled space up there. What completed this new passion was my iPod shuffle, which had both Misirlou and Pump It, by the Black-Eyed Peas, which I had gotten from Max. Pump it reminded me of Max only, not anything bad that had happened to me, and when it came on my shuffle, I would just explode with energy and thoughts of beautiful Max, one of the best things that ever happened to me. (I look at him in total wonder sometimes, like “How can someone as incredible as you actually be from me?” We don’t talk a lot these days, but when I do check in with him, I still have that same, deep comfort and ease that I had with him even as a newborn.)

I had Max make Pump It my ringtone. I don’t know how he did it. It is exactly the way it sounds on the shuffle. I was thrilled. Pump It began to be my guiding light, my way out, whether it was a dreary winter’s day and a slow work-out, or a more nefarious depression.

One day, Pump It came on right after the Misirlou. I had a flash of recognition: the bass guitar of the main theme was the same, just sped up! (Maybe this is obvious to some of you, who have actually seen Pulp Fiction and heard the surfing version of Misirlou, but to me, it was a revelation.)

The other day, I played the classic, George Abdo Misirlou for my Baby Bellies. It was the first song that they actually asked to hear again. I began to have an idea. With the help of one of my Baby Bellies, we all bit-by-bit came up with a choreography that they could follow, set to the Misirlou. On Tuesday I wrote it down and that afternoon I went over it with them.

They actually practiced it four times.

People stopped to watch us, delight apparent on their faces. The BBs were listening to me, and working off each other, helping one another remember what came next and how to execute each move. “Now we do the flower thing, now it’s the flower into the middle of the circle!” or “Now we go in a line!” or “Now we spin, pedal turn!”

We are going to perform for the parents at the end of the session. Maybe the staff in the office, too. My first production. Once again, I come back full circle, to the Misirlou, a sad song about love and things that cannot be; it has snaked its way into my subconscious and brought me to a new place of joy where I discover new loves and new things that absolutely can be.

The Goomba, who in our household has been named, “Webster Goomez,” is a favorite Mario character of Ben’s. I did not know that until recently.

My mother did not know that either, presumably. But somehow, using her extra-sharp Grandma Vision, she picked him out at some store she frequents, and something told her, This one — for Ben.
Mom has always been a kind of a Superhero herself. Her background is in library science and education, and she has put it to use with my sons in spades. She has always been especially skilled when it comes to getting the right book or toy for the right grandboy. Mom is the one, after all, who picked out Spell-A-Puzzle, which is the toy that taught Nat to read. Mom is the one who recommended all the Beezus books, Narnia, and the Egypt Game — oh, that was for me, actually — and she was the one who played Baby Beanie Babies over and over with Max in a cute high-pitched voice I never knew she had. Mom is the one who bought Nat Floppy Bunny and Funny Bunny. Dad, of course, was in on it all, too, God bless him! (They are both the Ace of Spades as far as I’m concerned.)

But today I am thinking about Mom, especially because of Webster.

Webster resides in our house. Mom got him for Ben as an “extra,” a present for Chanukah that did not “count” as the real present. But just because.

So Grumpy Goomez is a new part of the family. And he is very welcome, too. He and Ned get along very well. Ned has him walk all over Ben; five steps, then he rests, because his head is so large and his feet, so small, he tires easily. Ben thinks this is hilarious. The word Ben actually used was, “kinda adorable.” After that, he began to point out other things that are “cute.” With a smile on his face. No holding back; experiencing joy and emotional stuff and sap. This is Ben I am talking about. Sugar and Spike. All prickly.

It turns out, that a nasty little Mario character found his way into the secret catacombs of Benji’s heart and forgot to shut the door behind him.

So here’s the thing: I suddenly realized that overeating is not about actual physical diet. I had come to believe that it was, because I was an Atkins Acolyte and then very recently, a South Beach Believer. But both diets have ultimately failed me. I cannot lose weight on either one of them anymore. If I follow them religiously, they only barely work. I lost three pounds in a little less than two weeks on South Beach, and you are “supposed” to lose 8 -13.

Because of this frustrating phenomenon, I found myself thinking about the underlying science/belief of those two diets: that eating carbohydrates raises the glucose level; that raising the glucose level in your blood is bad because that feeling leads to craving which leads, inexorably, to overindulgence. And, that protein is the best food form because it does not really raise the glucose. Fat, also, does not. Plus, protein and fat will fill you up, so theoretically you won’t even miss the carbs.

It made so much sense to me. For nearly 5 years I have followed this basic attitude, denying myself many forms of carb and instead going for protein and fat. I had lately changed my proteins to lean, healthy proteins and the fats to non- or low-.

But I cannot lose weight. And you must know that I exercise quite a bit (almost every day, a hard three mile combo of treadmill and stairmaster, dance class and practice every other day, too). So this morning, I went back to eating low- rather than no-carb — I had, for the first time in two weeks, some multigrain pita bread — and I had a kind of epiphany. The bread made me feel happy. And I thought: this is the other side to raising glucose. You feel really good eating those foods. And then: you want more.

The low-carbivores believe that it is that wanting that is an undesirable, because of the wanting-more. They believe you can control that with eating other foods, ad nauseum. I am now challenging that assumption.

There are other parts in my life where I want more, too; not just in eating. But I can’t have that. We learn as we grow up that we have to resist things; we have to look away, we have to do something else and try to be satisfied with what we have. Channel. Sublimate.

Atkins and South Beach are trying to get you to believe that if you do it just right you won’t have to sublimate. You won’t crave. Because you will always be full.

But that belief is the crux of the problem. We still crave, even when we are full. Even when my life is in accord, and I am happy and full, I long for other things which I should not have. No amount of turkey breast and nonfat ricotta & Splenda is going to flatten that desire. Irrational desire, glucose-raising desire, are part of the human condition.

Furthermore, maybe we even have those desires for a reason. Maybe we are supposed to feel really good eating some kinds of food. Maybe, evolutionarily speaking, we enjoy eating so that we eat enough and survive things like long, dreary winters or boring times. Maybe we crave even more so that we never stop wondering, and never stop growing. Food pleasure is an animal pleasure, and it is a part of us.

I am learning from my cravings. I am learning things about myself, and what is important to me. I find that I hate ending things — even a meal! I hate good things to be over! Even on the dessert level! I also have learned that I love to feel as if I have options, more and more options, that my life is ever-expanding.

Those feelings are a part of me. The challenge I face in my life is how to pull back in time, how to be finished, how to move on. From chocolate, from bad relationships, from overindulgence. I want to embrace those feelings. I don’t want simplistically to hate and shut down craving. I want to learn how to say, “Okay, Oh God, that was tasty; but now I’m done.”

To me, and perhaps many older dancers who are not as lithe as they used to be, going into a backbend is a move we dream about but are not at all sure we can do. It is perhaps one of the most dramatic, expressive and athletic poses you can execute, and it looks particularly impressive with a sword on ones head. Our teacher showed us the secret of getting into a backbend, and it killed no one.

With feet in second, knees a plie
I wondered what crazy shape
We’d contort to today

Our backs were straight
“Push slowly down,” she said
“It should only hurt in your thighs”
(‘Hurt’ was the word that stuck in my head.)

And sure enough, there came the burn
But that, I could just ignore
“Now turn your feet on their inner edges
And lean backward toward the floor.”

Not a sound was heard around the room
Each arched — and held — till the end
‘Cause when we regained consciousness
We had made a fantastic backbend!

You would think that taking both Turkish-Greco style bellydance and Egyptian style Raks would be confusing and at cross purposes. Where the former is a bit more wild, Egyptian is straight up and down. Where Turkish-Greco is leaning back more, Raks is more upright. (You have to imagine the hieroglyphics, the tomb paintings from ancient Egypt, where all the figures are highly stylized and crisply vertical. The outfits they wear, too, are high-waisted straight skirts with gems on them.) Where Greek and Turkish style are more rounded in movements and larger steps, Egyptian is more tightly controlled, smaller movements, tiny steps, legs completely together. The costumes differ as well. Turkish-Greco is usually a bedlah (bra top and belt) over a flowing skirt; Egyptian is, as I have said, the straighter skirt with the fringe and frew-frew sewn in, and often less fringe on the top.

You would be very astute to notice all those differences, but in the end, you would be wrong to believe that they are so different that you can’t do them both simultaneously. If the teachers are skilled — and mine truly are — what you get out of it is the places where the styles meet up and even complement each other. And when you find such an accord in your dancing, it is a blissful feeling. The underlying similarites are that you have to be able to control and release parts of yourself at will, and to still feel the magic of the music.

Last night my teacher did a lot of talking while we danced, explaining her emotional state and illustrating it with hand and arm movements. She often talks about things that are important to her — the mindset of the dancer, her childhood, dancing with her Greek mother who is an incredible, legendary dancer and quite a personality — but it is never heavy. She can be serious, but she also knows how to break a mood with a smile. She jokes a lot. You can tell that she thinks a great deal, too. But she leaves you feeling as if you are moving to a different plane of consciousness somehow. It is never heavy; she simply drops these nuggets of insight and they create their ripples inside of you the more you are with her.

She showed us a movement last night that was simply the hand sweeping outward from the heart. She said how this is an example of when bellydance is not tightly controlled, the way we all learn it. In this instance, you should be getting in touch with your emotions and bringing that energy out, through your hand. Teachers often talk of “energy,” but with this teacher, I really feel what she means. I think this is because she means it. I copied what she was doing, in a repetitive motion, and just as she said, “You will start to actually feel this energy radiating outwards,” I did feel the smallest bit of resistance in the air between my heart and my hand.

Last night I danced better than I ever have. It was also the hardest I have ever worked. From holding my head up — to shoulders down, chest up, arms out, fingers curved delicately, midsection lifted, pelvis tucked, hip up, knee bent, foot perched on its ball, other knee back and bent, foot flat — to thinking about the beat and the position of my arms and how it was all going to change after a certain number of beats, I was in this zone of absolute control. And then, to have to suddenly move my hand outwards and feel the energy from my heart! I could do all that and feel a warm happiness, even as the beads of sweat rolled down my face.

Probably the combination of intense hold with light relaxation does wondrous things to your mind and body. In the end, it doesn’t matter at all that one form has you leaning more, stepping wider, or wearing a different type of cossie. What matters is the ability to exert a fierce control over your entire body, so much so that you can let go of one part and let in a feeling of peace and contentment. Now I am eager for my Sunday (Egyptian style) class, to see how much of this I can bring there.

Even more than it being about physical prowess, good dancing is like good parenting. It is about thinking with your heart but studying and understanding first with your head and body. In the most literal sense, first you are pregnant, and you are actually getting to know this being from within your body. Later you come to know him as a person in his own right, his own space. As you improve, and become accustomed to the strain, you do more through your heart and spirit. And that’s where you become really good at it.

I love this bellydancer, and I don’t even know who she is. She must be Lebanese or Egyptian, judging by the costume (straight skirt, no separate belt, high heel shoes). The whole vid interests me because my teacher is beginning to teach us dancing on our toes so we can transition to high heels sometime. That is totally exciting to me!

This young woman does such a good job of letting her own style come through the song, and showing appropriate expressions with face and body. She finds all the comedy in the situation. The guys dancing around her are kind of a funny and sweet touch. Her drum solo afterwards is wonderful. Drum solos are a part of most cabaret performances. In a drum solo, the rhythms change throughout. So you have to let the rhythm drive your movements, and you have to anticipate the rhythm changes. So you have to know transitional moves to take you from one rhythm to the next. Kind of a valuable skill set for life, too.